


Heartbreaker

by seraphim_grace



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Domestic Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Telekinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphim_grace/pseuds/seraphim_grace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nagi and Omi have been together a long time, but Nagi can't leave, Omi loves him after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbreaker

Mamoru thought that Nagi didn’t know that he had switched the business card for one with a discontinued number. Nagi did, he stayed anyway. He even pretended that he didn’t know and turned the card over and over in his hand where Mamoru could see. Crawford had given him the card when he had elected to stay with the admonition that he was to call if he needed him. Of course he hadn’t, at first, and after then it was too late to leave.

The irony was that he was Mamoru’s bodyguard but it was Masato that followed him at a discrete distance.

Mamoru loved him, Mamoru protected him, and surely it was worth a little pain for the knowledge that someone loved him to the absolute exclusion of everything else. But sometimes, when it was dark and cold and the night close about, he wanted to phone Crawford, he wanted to talk to someone else, someone that had nothing to do with Mamoru but Mamoru knew that too and that was why he changed the card.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

Nagi balled up trying to protect his face from the flurry of blows that Mamoru rained down on him. He didn’t try to use his tk because he knew it was just worse when he did. That was when Mamoru used names as well as blows, freak, witch, demon, over and over again between kicks and punches. He just lay there, balled up as tight as he could to protect his stomach, his face, his crotch.

Then just as suddenly as it had started it was over and Mamoru fell back into the corner, hugging his knees and crying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

Nagi uncurled himself slowly despite the pain and the bruises and went to him, laying his head on Mamoru’s shoulder and whispered, “it’s okay, love, I understand.” The tragedy of it was, he thought as he stroked Mamoru’s dark hair, that he did.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to.” One of Nagi’s arms lay helpless at his side, probably broken again, as he wiped away Mamoru’s tears with the other.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

The flowers went to the asylum every month on the fifteenth, they had for years. It was how it had started after all. Every month on the fifteenth five thousand yen worth of whatever flowers were in season went to Nanami at the asylum. She had no one else, and with Crawford’s blessing Nagi had walked into the Koneko no Sumu Ie and gone to the counter. It was with the steady assurance that they wouldn’t try anything in a shop full of girls and that this business, at least, was genuine. Omi had been on the counter, with sunny blue eyes and a smile like the rising sun. Siberian had stopped where he was, hackles raised. Balinese had tensed, his grey green eyes turning feral. Abyssinian, all hard eyes and fingers tightening about the shears he held. And Nagi, solemn eyed and sullen, feeling very small, as intimidated by the fluttering girls as much as the four assassins in front of him. 

“I’d like to buy flowers.” Nagi said putting the card, Crawford’s card, unto the counter, “for Nanami.”

Abyssinian had pushed Omi out of the way, “What do you want?”

“Flowers,” Nagi repeated. Although he was shy, although he wanted nothing more than to leave, but this was a good flower shop and it amused Schuldig to give them custom that they couldn’t really afford to turn away. “I want two bunches of flowers,” it was easy to be cocky when he knew that they couldn’t touch him or even insult him in front of the girls, “one of whatever flowers are in season, five thousand yen’s worth, and one of about the same value of whatever flowers you think your sister would appreciate, Fujimiya.” He wasn’t Schuldig, but nevertheless Nagi could be cruel, he could be sullen and he could be wicked, it was an escape from his painful shyness. It was easier to make enemies than friends.

Abyssinian looked as if he was about to vault over the counter but for Balinese’s hand on his shoulder but Omi just smiled, “are you to take them with you?”

“One of them,” Nagi answered brusquely looking at the girls, their sailor fuku and kitten ties, some with ribbons in their hair. They were brief and shining lives amongst them, as much a security for Weiss as for him, “the other is to be delivered here.” He laid down the address of the asylum, “and I want it to be delivered on the fifteen of every month to her.”

Omi looked at the card and smiled, “certainly, Aya-kun,” he looked at Abyssinian, “I think our customer chose this shop to give you a chance to choose flowers for your sister, isn’t that right?” and deep down, facing that shining disposition and rising sun smile, Nagi wanted to believe it was true.

Abyssinian had handed it off with a grunt and the flowers had been almost as big as he was, a gift for their sleeping princess. Nagi looked back at Omi, shining and golden amidst the flowers, a cap on his blonde hair and a shapeless apron about his waist and suddenly found him beautiful. “Charge a flower for each of the girls here, whatever they want, just one,” he said and then as Siberian opened the door for him to leave he left, taking a deep breath of the beautiful bouquet in his arms.

Omi had chased him out, calling out his name as he reached Crawford’s black sedan. “Thank you,” he said, flushed and golden, his smile blinding in it’s brilliance, “I know you’re not cruel, I know you’re looking after her, after both of them.” And then he was gone, back into the chatter and the flowers and the soil and the security of the flower shop.

 

Mamoru never smiled any more.

He sat down at his huge desk, bent over the papers by the dull light of the desk lamp his pen skritching back and forth as Rex brings him files upon files about Kritiker, about Weiss 4, about the dark beasts, about the running of the Takatori businesses, about his grandfather Saijou, about the day to day business of the Takatori castle, about the cousins he didn’t know about, the branches of the family it was his place to protect, about his staff and he worked and worked and worked. 

Nagi would watch him, the coffee cooling on the desk, Mamoru would have straight black coffee where Omi would have had a brightly coloured soda or pocari sweat. Omi had had an earthenware bowl of hard candies that he would suck upon when he worked, but Mamoru had nothing. He worked through the evening and into the night. He worked until dawn some days and still Rex came with the manila folders and laid them on the green blotter, and he would look up at Nagi and he would offer him a tired smile and “you go on home, love, Rex will make sure I get something to eat and some sleep.” And Nagi would get up with a sigh and a frown and walk home, with Masato always a few steps behind. They didn’t bother to hide from each other; there was no point in it. Nagi knew why Masato was there after all. 

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

Nagi sat in the hospital as his wrist was strapped, the lamp Mamoru had brought down on it with cries of “you don’t understand, why don’t you go to her if you love her so much, “ had broken it. He held Crawford’s business card tightly in his other hand as the medic, an apple cheeked boy with shining black hair and endless eyes explained what he was doing. It didn’t matter; Nagi didn’t need to know- he’d been through this so many times before. The doctor had joked that he didn’t have an X-ray folder as much as a portfolio. The joke and the smile were forced; Masato stood at the door, arms crossed and face disappointed. Nagi didn’t even know who he was disappointed in any more.  
The orderly gave him ibuprofen in a paper cup with a splash of water, and checked the cuts, not believing for an instant his excuse of “I fell down the stairs.”

“This is probably more than my job’s worth, but,” he looked around, Masato for once outside the room, “there are places you can go, you know, shelters.”

“You’re right,” Nagi said just as softly, “it is more than your job’s worth, tell no one you told me that, promise me.”

And the orderly looks at him surprised, at the butterfly stitches that split his eyebrow, at his bruised and solemn eyes, at the contusions and the welts and the broken arm and then lowers his eyes. There is nothing left to say.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

It was worse after, which surprised Nagi because he had thought that the anticipation would be worse, but he knows different now. It was worse when it was over, when the tears started. When all he heard was “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, oh god, love, what have I done?” And then the self-recriminations, the sad eyes, the horror as Masato silently patched him back up, or took him to the hospital when he couldn’t.  
It was the tears that really hurt, not the blows, not the kicks, not the names not the accusations but watching a pair of eyes the colour of the sea over the sky darken and well with tears, that’s what broke him inside. Masato said nothing; he’d seen this before so many times. Sometimes it looks like he wanted to say something, anything, like run kid, or you don’t have to take this, but he worked for Mamoru and he said nothing. When Masato asked why Nagi needed watched he was told, in no uncertain terms, by Rex, that he was Schwarz, he was not to be trusted.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

Omi had met him coming out of the asylum, in his loose clothing and baggy shorts, a cap perched on a shock of sun coloured hair and a huge bunch of flowers in his arms. He had smiled and it was like the sun coming out from behind a great black cloud and Nagi felt it deep inside. He handed the flowers to the nurse with the instruction of where to take them, that they were for Nanami, before he turned that million watt smile to him. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” he said and his face lit up like a pinball machine as he looked at Nagi, “let me take you for a soda.”  
“We’re enemies,” Nagi said softly, the scent of the flowers lingered in the air as the nurse carried them away, “if I was you I would kidnap me and torture me for information about our plans.” 

Although he hadn’t thought it possible Omi’s smile grew until it almost split his face in two. “I didn’t even consider that, I thought we could have chocolate parfait, I’m not due back at the shop for ages and it’s no fun to cut on your own.” And Nagi hadn’t known why he’d gone with him but he had.

They had sat in the Crown Karaoke bar drinking soda and eating chocolate parfait, the music played in the background as they told each other stories and just laughed and laughed. When the time finally came for them to part Nagi had asked him how did he know that he wasn’t as dangerous as say Schuldig or Farfarello, and Omi had smiled and told him the truth, it was because he looked after Nanami.

Nanami who wrote him long letters that he got when he visited her. He was the only one who did. Nanami who giggled when she saw him, smoothing out her turquoise hair and patting her dress. Nanami who loved the flowers he sent her. Nanami who had been Todt, Nanami who had once stood in a field of scattered cherry blossoms and spun around and laughed and laughed and laughed.

It was Nanami who pushed them together and it was Nanami that drove them apart.

 

Mamoru’s kisses always burned him like sparks against his skin. His skin was dry and his touches hurried. He laid Nagi back on the desk whilst Masato stood watch on the outside of the door. “my love,” he murmured into his hair, “love you, love you so much.” His hands were jerky and uneven as he fumbled with Nagi’s belt. There was no time for foreplay, no time for sweet nothings, just a gap in his schedule and a space on his desk. His tongue found the well of his flat stomach, nosing up along his shirt into the well of his neck. His hands jerked down the waist of his pants careless of how they caught, of how the friction of the fabric burned against the swell of his hipbones and the dip of his pelvis. He wasn’t hard yet, but he would be.

There was always a touch of pain in this now.

Mamoru was excessive with the lubricant, slathering almost an entire jar unto his erect member before pushing two fingers into Nagi with a dull stretching sting that he hid well. Then he forced his way inside, and began the rocking, his finely tailored trousers around his ankles, his shirt tails flapping against his ass as he went back and forth, driving into Nagi and pulling back to push in again. It didn’t hurt, the thrusting, or the mumbling into his neck, the “love, god, love you, love’s”.

It didn’t even hurt the way he finished quickly, too quickly, and the slippery hand that manipulated his erection until he himself came to the repeated assurances of “love, love you, love you so much, love you.” It didn’t hurt when Mamoru used one of his silk handkerchiefs to wipe away the mess before washing his hands in the private bathroom. It didn’t hurt when he jerked up his trousers accepting the almost fraternal kiss on his temple. It didn’t hurt when Masato stood up when he opened the door. What hurt was Rex’s look of complete disdain as he went to leave, when she brought Mamoru his tray of tea and walked past him. It hurt the way she sneered, “jealous” his imaginary Schuldig sneered, he had created his own Schwarz not long after they left for Europe, “she’s jealous”, Schuldig said leaning against the wall and smoking his perfumed cigarette, “she wants him for herself”. Nagi didn’t believe him, but even in his imagination it was a comfort.

Masato would see him home after, he would make sure there was food in the house and that Nagi would get some rest, he was shaggy and dishevelled but kind in his way, afraid of Mamoru, he would shrug and suggest a bath, a cup of herbal tea and bed. Sometimes he even recommended a novel he had read, “take it to bed,” he said, and Nagi knew it was the only thing that he would.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

He read about the woman in the paper. She had been kind but stubborn, with dyed red hair and thin manicured hands. She had watched Nagi for weeks, wearing broomstick skirts and heavy beads, she’d see the way he sat in the coffee shop reading the Asahi Shimbun with Reiichi sat with him. It was Masato’s own time, when he did what he had to do, so he sat with Reiichi because Mamoru didn’t want him to be on his own. He liked spending time with Reiichi because Reiichi talked to him, he played chess with him, and allowed him to check his email, a thing that Mamoru never let him.

The woman saw him with Reiichi, laughing and joking, her skin parchment thin and her mouth clown red, she watched him over her glasses with appraising eyes. She catalogued everything she saw sucking her tea through thin yellow teeth. 

After a few weeks she followed him into the bathroom whilst Reiichi paid for their order, she cornered him against the urinal. “I know it’s hard to admit,” she said, “but there are places where you could go, you just need to ask.”

Nagi had shaken his head but accepted the address that she had given him. It was a shelter, “even if you only go in the day, sometimes you just need somewhere safe in the short term.” Nagi looked at her, the way she stared at the cast on his arm, the stitches and the bruises. “I was beaten too,” she said, “you’re young, and it’s a terrible thing even in the old. Even if you think you can’t leave, I can’t justify leaving you behind.”

“I was in an accident,” he said a little numbly but he knew that it wasn’t true and she didn’t believe it for a moment. “It was a car crash.”

“I know you don’t want to admit it,” she said, “but just consider it, okay, you don’t have to take this. It’s not meant to be like this.” 

They found her in an alley, both her legs had been broken after she had been shot repeatedly in the stomach. She had been left for a long time to die in the cold. A card with the address she had given Nagi had been put in her mouth. Nagi wanted to believe that Mamoru hadn’t done it but he couldn’t. She had meant well, and Nagi hadn’t mentioned her, he didn’t believe Reiichi had, because that was not his way, but nevertheless she had been murdered for her kindness.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

Omi was sunny haired and shining bright. He was beautiful and fumbling. He didn’t know what he was doing and it just made him all the more adorable. He looked embarrassed when he tangled his fingers in Nagi’s belt and clearly didn’t know what to do. He bit down on his plump lower lip, that looked like a slice of warm soft peach, and fretted. Nagi just laughed. He laughed and laughed, pulling Omi down unto the bed with him, and Omi was so startled by it that he laughed too, and it was like that, with giggles and laughter and touches and cries of yes, more, yes, and then soft touches, wondrous touches, exploring touches, not out of lust or need, but out of love. His fingertips traced the line of Nagi’s cheek like he was discovering him for the first time, like he had beheld something wondrous, and his eyes shone. Nagi had felt safe with him, safe, loved and cherished.

Crawford said it had to end. It would end badly. Nagi had ranted and railed, “I don’t care,” he said, “I don’t care. I love him.”

“I know,” Crawford told him gently, “but it will end badly.”

Nagi sometimes wondered if Crawford had known the extent of how it would end.

Sometimes he lay in his bed and looked at Mamoru sleeping, at the dark curl that crossed his face and how his eyes seemed harder, even in sleep, and he wondered where his sunny haired boy had gone, and he remembered that night, the laughter, and the protestations of love. He remembered Crawford slapping him.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

He had tried to leave once; he had packed up his things and told him that he was going. “You can’t leave me,” Mamoru told him, “I love you.” He was cold, and Rex stood at the door, her hand on her gun, though it was clear she was no match for him.

“I can,” Nagi told him, “And I will, I agreed to work here for you, not for Kritiker, I couldn’t care about Kritiker.” He had lifted his rucksack, sad that his entire life could fit in this one bag and left.

“You’ll come back,” Rex whispered in his ear as he walked past, “you belong to him.”  
“Go,” Mamoru shouted in rage, throwing things at his back, “go back to your whore.”

“She was never my lover,” Nagi said sadly, “only you were.”

The door didn’t seem to close properly behind him, he had thought that it would be that final death knell of their relationship, but he was wrong. 

His apartment was small but it was his, he decorated it sparingly, just a futon and a couch under the window. He knew Mamoru would know where to find him, but it didn’t matter, he didn’t matter any more. It didn’t stop the terrible ache in his chest, or the dead taste in the back of his throat. It didn’t stop the lethargy, the tiredness, the crying. It had taken everything in him to leave, and he was surprised that he had. 

The phone didn’t work, and when he called into complain they said that there was no problem with it, that it was working fine, and that his bill was paid up for the year by the Takatori corporation, did he work for them? He must be lucky, their new CEO was gorgeous, she told him, how she wouldn’t mind working for them. 

Nagi swallowed the tears till he got home. 

He sat under the showerhead and let the water wash over him, he wasn’t crying, he was numb.

Then his rent was paid in full for the year by the Takatori corporation.

He knew what it was, Mamoru wanted him to call him, to rant and to rail. He didn’t.  
Then Mamoru knocked on the door, looking so small and so lost, like a kite without a string, without the weight of the Takatori behind him. And Nagi let him in.

He moved back to Takatori towers within the week.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

“You don’t love me,” Mamoru accused as he threw the pen on his table in his rage, his frustration reaching the very last stage of what it could stand and he exploded. The letter from Nanami folded on the desk in an envelope he had no right to open. “You only love her, you’re only with me because she’s mad and you can’t have her, I’ll kill her before I let you go to her.”

Nagi said nothing, he just looked at the floor in front of him.

“You play me for a fool and you think I don’t know, and I love you,” No, Nagi thought, you don’t, you possess me and mistake it for love. You think love is ownership and it’s not, but he said nothing. “You think I don’t know how you go to her, for your trysts. You did all this for her.” He lifted an armful of the papers on the desk and threw them in the air, “you died for her.”

“Is that what you want?” Nagi asked, he lashed out with his tk, lifting the papers and levitating them in a mockery of the flower petals he had once given Nanami. “Is this what you want? She has no one else, Mamoru, no one but me, am I not allowed friends now?” The papers flew more violently. “Do you want me to pull down this building to show you? I ‘m with you, not her.” His anger was out of control and dragging his tk with it, he lifted a lamp, Mamoru’s cup, the blotter on his desk, they floated about Mamoru’s head like a whirlwind, not touching him. “I’m her friend, nothing more.”  
“You’re just using me,” Mamoru accused, “because I’m a Takatori, Esset told you to, didn’t they? They told you to fuck me, to use me any way you could so that I would work for them.”

Nagi was astounded, after all Crawford had sacrificed to free them from Rosenkreuz and Estet to be accused of that. After all he and Omi had been through, to be accused of that.

“I have never.” He started.

“Liar,” Mamoru shouted, he pulled the cup from the air and threw it. Nagi caught it with his tk and threw it back.

There was a sharp stabbing pain in the back of his neck and he watched as the papers and the lamp and the blotter fell to the floor in a sort of drunken horror, falling to his knees, he knew what had happened. He had been tranquillised. Rex stood in the door with the gun in her hand, he saw her one last time smiling before he passed out.

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

The slap had caught them both unaware. Nagi had stood there, stoically taking the abuse that Mamoru lashed out, knowing it wasn’t his fault, that the burned rice had just been the straw that had broken the back of his anger. He knew it was just rage; That it wasn’t personal. He knew that the burned rice had just taken it too far, that work had pushed him and pushed him, with Rex like a devil whispering on his shoulder.

The bill for Nanami’s flowers sat on the sideboard, just as it always did on the sixteenth of the month.

Mamoru had started cold when Nagi apologised about the rice, the restaurant had burned it and he had spoken to them and they hadn’t charged them and were very sorry, it had been an oversight. The rice had been inedible. Nagi had asked him about his day, just to break the silence, he had asked if he wanted to put some music on, just to break the terrible weight of silence between them. Mamoru had forced down the burned dry rice, coating it with soya sauce. “You don’t have to eat it.” Nagi said standing up, “it’s horrid, I’m sorry, I wanted this to be nice for you.”

“Why?” Mamoru asked looking up, his eyes were the colour of shattered glass. “Because you spent the day with her when I had men dying in the field.”

Nagi just looked at him in shock. “Five men died today.” Mamoru said standing up, he was slightly taller than Nagi but he still managed to loom over him. “Five, and I had to tell their families, and you were with her.”

“I wasn’t.”

“How dare you lie to me?” Mamoru asked, his face pink with rage, his eyes looking like the frozen remnants of a stained glass window that had survived a bomb blast.

“I,” that was as far as Nagi got when Mamoru’s hand caught his cheek hard, the stone on his ring slicing his lip. Nagi just stood there, silent as the horror of what he had done occurred to Mamoru.

“Oh my god,” he said and then he stepped back, he stepped away from the crime. “Oh my god,” he stepped back again, stumbling backwards till he hit the wall and slid down it like a corpse. “I, I.” He didn’t know what to say.

Nagi crossed the floor and placed his torn cheek against his thigh, “It’s okay,” he said softly, “just don’t do it again,” he felt Mamoru’s fingers bury themselves in his hair as Mamoru shook with rage and pain and self loathing, “it’s alright, love, I know you didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t leave me,” Mamoru whispered as he sobbed into Nagi’s hair, “please, don’t leave me.”

It hadn’t always been like this.

 

 

Nagi was balled up as tight as he could get as Mamoru flailed at him with blows and kicks. “whore,” he screamed, “I’ll kill her, I’ll fucking kill her, she can’t take you from me, you’re mine, I love you, me, not her, me.”

Nagi was silent, the words were just noise to him. He’d heard them all before. He would wait this out, as he always did and when the rage was gone he would allow Masato to patch him up as he always did. A single tendril of his tk, the thinnest strand he could manipulate reached up to Mamoru and touched him, it slipped inside his chest and found his heart, straining with his rage and exertion. For a moment he cupped it, just as once he had cupped Omi’s, and then he pushed further inside. There it was, he thought as Mamoru landed a blow to his kidneys, the tiny hole that he had created, he touched it with his power, caressed it and then tore it open a little more.

It was only fair, Nagi thought, to break Mamoru’s heart, because Mamoru had broken his.


End file.
